


Double the Pleasure

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Magic Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joey comes to terms with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double the Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> this will squick you if you find the idea of a guy being with himself repulsive.

"The fuck, man?"

It wasn't, you thought with some disappointment, so much that there was a younger version of yourself seated on your hotel bed, one eyebrow raised, the other lowered in confusion: that didn't bother you so much as the fact that this younger, ganglier version seemed to eminently disapprove of you. He looked down, then up, his eyes taking in the softness of your middle and the stark blond of your hair, and shook his head.

"Who the hell asked you, anyway?" you grumbled, not looking at him, not wanting to see this reminder of a you in years past, a more youthful, in-shape, better you.

"Don't even start," he said. "I don't even know what I'm doing here, or -- what the hell's going on, and--"

Just then the door opened, JC swinging in breathlessly with excitement in his face that died as soon as he saw the other you sitting on the bed. He stopped, confused, swung to see you, still in your towel and wet from the shower, and then looked back at the bed. "Who's that?" he said, and for a moment you thought you could explain it.

You glanced back at the nineteen-year-old you and that was when you had your second shock of the day. He was blushing, looking down, one hand running nervously through his hair. 'He's in love with JC,' you thought, and then you had to sit down. The floor was convenient and close enough.

* * *

When you opened your eyes again, you were laying down, JC leaning concernedly over you. "You all right, man?" he asked, eyes narrowed, close to yours, and you blinked a few times and nodded.

"Think so," you said, groping at your towel to keep it in place as you sat up. You must have fainted, you thought, just for a moment. You leaned against the wall, JC pushing you gently into place, and rested your head back on the cool surface behind you. "Not, um, not every day a younger version of yourself turns up."

"Sorry," the nineteen-year-old on the bed mumbled, looking a bit sheepish.

"It's not your fault," you said, as JC tossed another confused look at him.

"Do you know -- I mean, what happened?"

"I don't know. I just walked out of the shower and he was there," you said.

"Kind of, yeah, I woke up and -- I mean, yeah," the younger you added. You figured as much, as he wore boxers and a muscle shirt, his hair rumpled and flat on one side.

"Shit," JC said succinctly, and you nodded. He looked at you again, rubbing his mouth, and you tried to remember a phase of your life where you'd been in love with JC. He managed to distract you, though: "Do you remember this happening? I mean, like, when you were younger?"

"No," you muttered, because you were pretty sure you'd remember something like this happening.

"Well, come on," JC said. "Get dressed, and, um, you too--" He swung back to look at the younger you, who nodded without looking up. "And we'll figure something out." He stood, shaking his head, the heel of one hand rubbing his forehead, long fingers in his hair. "I'll get the others in my room."

* * *

Chris, Lance and Justin displayed varying degrees of shock: Chris thought it was cool -- but he would, you thought numbly, you'd been much closer to him back then -- while Justin simply stared, eyes and mouth wide. Lance was the one who finally said, "Well, we only have a few days left on the tour, and then we have the month off, so it's not like we have to do anything with him. He can stay with Joe -- is that all right?" he said, glancing up at you as if only just remembering your presence.

"Um. Yeah, I guess," you said, sighing. "I guess, yeah." It didn't seem much use to argue.

"We don't know how long -- I mean, what if he's here permanently?" JC said.

"He can't be, that'd be a paradox," Chris replied, "you know, 'cause we know he was with us the whole time -- I mean, I don't remember him up and disappearing and coming back--"

"But it could be an alternate timeline or something," and then they were off and running and you really regretted the fact that the Science Fiction channel even existed, let alone the fact that both of them were addicted to it. Your younger self glanced at you, rolling his eyes, and you felt a sudden wave of sympathy, and a bit of relief: maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

He still gave you a critical look later, though, asking what the hell you were thinking when you went blond, and you shrugged: "Wanted something different." Then you grinned, because you couldn't wait to see what he thought of the red.

* * *

You wound up the tour with a celebratory show in San Diego, and after a night partying -- introducing him as your cousin to anyone who asked -- everyone headed back to Orlando. You felt a certain sense of pride in showing him your house, even though it still needed work; he laughed to see you absorbed in a decision about tile and wallpaper for the upstairs bathroom, and you flipped him off absently.

It wasn't like having a little brother around, as you'd initially thought it would be; instead, you found, you really liked it, having someone who thought a lot like you, but wasn't your shadow, didn't echo you. You found yourself having a vivacious argument with him about whether Stephen King was a better writer than Dean Koontz, and later on, when you both got drunk and watched a bunch of cheesy horror movies Chris had left over one night, you thought that it was nice to have him there to lean your head on.

He took the news of Kelly's pregnancy with more aplomb than you'd expected -- but then again, it wasn't his problem, so to speak. He actually seemed excited about it, happy about the fact that he'd be a father someday, and it made you feel better about it to some extent. He questioned your continued relationship with her, though, and when you tried to explain that she'd been loyal, she'd been good to you, he just shook his head.

"But you don't love her," he said.

"I do," you protested.

"Not like, you're not, like, in love with her."

"Yeah, I am," but it felt a bit odd, and you thought with a disturbing qualm that he might be right.

"See?" He sat back, quaffing the last of his beer.

"Well, you should know," you said, and then regretted it, because he looked up at you sharply, hotly, and then looked away. Got up, tromping into the kitchen for another beer.

When he came back, there was silence -- aside from the screaming on the television screen -- until you sighed, "I'm sorry, man."

"I can't believe -- you're me, and you don't -- don't you remember this?"

You shook your head. "I've been trying to, believe me. I'm, I've been thinking about it since you showed up, and, uh." You rubbed your fuzzy-feeling forehead, hoping to dislodge a memory or two. "When did it, when did you realize?"

"God, I think it's been forever that, um," he said, leaning back and opening the can. "But, um, I think it was really a few weeks ago that it kind of hit me. We were out at the beach, we had a day off, and Lance convinced us all to go jet-skiing, and he was all, like, wet, with the wetsuit, and I couldn't stop looking at him. And Chris made some joke about how he was so pretty, he was tempted to jump him," and his voice broke a little, his gaze focused on the screen. "And all I could think was that if Chris touched him, I'd kill him. So that was kind of when it..." He trailed off and took a long gulp of beer.

Thinking back, you remembered that day, now, and how good JC had looked. You wonder if this version of you is from an alternate dimension or something, though -- and snort to yourself, because JC's indoctrinated you with his obsessive watching of _Sliders_ \-- because you don't remember it hitting you, really. You don't remember ever being in love with JC, except.

Except that you've always kept an eye on him. You do it because he needs supervision. He's not really made for this world, you've always thought: JC is -- not above, exactly, but beyond -- things like taxes and balancing checkbooks and dealing with ordinary shit. And he doesn't always watch what he's doing, where he's going, and you don't mind. You never have. You liked it; it feels good to be responsible for him. It's easier to take care of him than yourself, actually.

Even as you thought that, you saw the recognition flicker in his eyes, and suddenly you wondered, and then shook your head in shock. "No, no, I'm not--"

"You are," he said.

"But I'm -- but that'd be--"

"Gay?" He laughed, then, but it died out when he saw you were still staring at him, dumfounded.

"I'm not gay," you protested, fervent, thinking even as you said it that you were getting a bit too defensive about it.

"Sure," he said, and drinking again, and you glared at the movie for a while, not talking, only getting up for more beer.

After a while, he said, "I'm sorry if--"

"It's okay," you said. "But--"

"You should think about it," he said. "It's not that bad."

You were sure, then, that he was from a different -- timeline, dimension, something -- because you were not this self-aware at nineteen. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, aside from being in love with him, I mean, cause he doesn't, he'll never look at me that way -- being with a guy. You've never..?" He raised an eyebrow.

You shook your head. "No, I mean. Never thought about it." That's not entirely true; guys have come on to you, in clubs, after shows, and you've always laughed and smilingly turned them down, but sometimes you wondered what it would be like to have a male mouth on your cock, a large masculine hand stroking your erection. It made you hard; it made you come more than once. He chuckled, seeing your flush and knowing that you were thinking about it now, if you hadn't before.

"You should try it," he said.

"Yeah, right."

"You'd like it." He made a little amused noise. "Trust me. It's the best -- I mean, sex with girls is great, too, don't get me wrong, but, it's like, it's different, it's--" He shook his head. "I can't explain."

You must have been drunk -- later, that was your thought -- because something made you look up at him, made you impulsively choke out, "Show me."

He looked at you for a long moment, the can of beer held close to his mouth, and you noticed how wet his lips were, inviting and slightly parted, and you wondered if you were weirding him out: you were certainly freaking yourself out a bit. And then malty breath tickled your nose, and his eyes were right there, and you suddenly thought: 'this is what girls see,' just before he kissed you.

For about two seconds, you thought: 'strange, strange, fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition strange'. Then you stopped caring, because even if this was you, it wasn't you, it was an alternate version of you, and he was pushing you back, your head against the arm of the couch, and his body was hot and it felt good, and you liked him holding you down -- and that was weird, too, but it turned you on, so you didn't much care.

"Hang on," you panted, when he started licking your neck; "let's go upstairs." You didn't want a mess on your couch, and if this was going to be your first time with a guy, as you were slowly but surely starting to think it was, you wanted it to be comfortable.

So he laughed, but he got up and the two of you stumbled up the stairs, into your room. You knew you had to be drunk, your feet were unsteady on the stairs, and you thought that you might regret this in the morning. But you'd never turned down a challenge, and you weren't about to start now.

He was already pulling off his shirt (your shirt, actually; he loved your tee-shirts, had all but claimed the "Tell your mom I said hi" one for himself), tossing it to the floor where it was lost in the mess. You followed suit, and, stripped to the waist, joined him on the bed.

"I was thinking," he said, palming your ribs, "that I could suck you, see if you liked it, and if you want to, you can do me. But only if you want to."

"Okay," you said, feeling a certain amount of apprehension combined with surging lust; you've never been one to turn down a blowjob, after all. He pushed you back on the bed, so you sprawled there horizontally while he undid your belt, slid your pants down, kissed you while his hand covered your dick. You were hard already, and hissed into his mouth when his fingers worked over the head -- of course, you knew he'd know what you liked, but it was still a shock, and the knowledge that the hand on your cock was male was pretty close to blowing your mind.

He didn't just drop down, either, like the girls in pornos or most of the girls you'd been with over the years; he took his time, making it a seduction, and you wondered if you'd been this thoughtful when you were nineteen, and then smiled to yourself and thought you had to have been. No one had ever complained, anyway. He made slow work of your chest, his tongue feverish on one nipple and then the other; his free hand worked steadily in your hair, and by the time his mouth found your erection, you were shaking, alive with the need to be touched. You wanted to cry when he took you between his lips. Instead, you clutched the bedspread and restrained yourself, let him curl his tongue around the base of your cock, let him touch you and lick you and squeeze you, a finger working at the space below your balls, and when it teased at the tender skin of your entrance, you bucked up into his mouth -- despite a hand on your hip that tried to hold you down -- and came.

Afterwards, while you were still breathing hard, he came back up and kissed you: lightly, but you pulled him down, wanting to taste yourself on his tongue. He smiled down at you, and then you pushed him over to his back, pinning his thighs under your leg.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know," you replied, "and, um, I still might not. But I'll at least," and you took a breath and put your hand on his cock, still hard beneath a layer of denim. He sucked in a gasp, and you got up the nerve to open his jeans, tug the fly down and the boxer-briefs with it, revealing a curve of dick that was, in its strangeness, utterly familiar. This, at least, you knew how to do, and it wasn't so weird, almost like masturbating, to stroke him, to touch him; your little pants all but echoed his.

Eventually you looked at his flushed face, the open wet lips, and you realized that you wanted to taste him, wanted to feel what it was like to suck cock. So you kissed him, your tongue moved down his chest, and then it was there and you were there and you just put your mouth there and closed your eyes.

It wasn't the best blowjob in the history of the world, but you knew what would feel good, at least, from having a basic grasp of male anatomy. You managed not to use your teeth, and you even tried to deep-throat him a little but your gag reflex kicked in and you couldn't, quite. But he enjoyed it; you could tell, from his reactions, and even though you didn't swallow, not quite prepared for that, he didn't seem to mind, kissing you frantically as you jerked him into orgasm.

'Now I know what I look like when I come,' you thought, and the absurdity of it made you laugh. He grinned at you, reaching up to stroke your face, and said, "Not so bad, wasn't it?"

You shook your head, smiling. After a little while, you got up to take a shower, feeling more sober from the exertion. The steam helped, too, and in the big glassed-in shower, you couldn't stop touching him, couldn't keep your hands off of him. When he pushed you back to the tile wall and breathed in your ear, "want to fuck me?" you couldn't get the water off fast enough.

Tumbling back into bed, you grabbed at the nightstand drawer, finding a handful of condoms and a half-used tube of K-Y. He laughed when you pressed him down into the mattress -- "dude, I so thought I'd be past my prime by now," and you growled at him, sucked at his neck hard to leave a mark.

He talked you through getting him ready; you were apprehensive and nervous again, but he was clean and you weren't really freaked by fingering him. It was even kind of familiar, although you were used to different surrounding genitalia. And when you had him open, when you found that place that made him shout and beg you to fuck him, you loved the sudden surge of power it brought.

'Surreal', you thought, easing into him, your dick so hard in the condom it hurt, the incredible encompassing heat of him making your head spin. Surreal, to be fucking someone with your own face, even though it wasn't quite your face, younger and smoother and less worried; a face of fewer experiences, of fewer conquests, of fewer complications. Like fucking a mirror, a little, like diving so deep into your reflection that it was speaking openly to you and telling you everything about yourself.

You closed your eyes and kissed him, your hands on his parted thighs while he slowly fisted his own cock. It was hot, to watch the ecstasy blur his features, tear at his mouth, arch his head back against the pillow. Hot to watch your dick slide in and out of him; hot to watch him jack himself off, even hotter to feel his muscles grip you harder as he got closer, with every stroke of your cock that pressed along his prostate, and when your hand closed over his and squeezed, to feel him come in sweet agony all around you. It took you with it, his orgasm bleeding into your own.

Later, as you were falling asleep, you thought with some regret that you'd never be able to think of sex the same way again.

* * *

The next day, you didn't get dressed. You ignored the phone, and the only time you get out of bed was to scoop some food from the fridge and go back.

* * *

You woke up the day after that to the phone ringing. You were tempted to let it go, but after yesterday, you figured the guys were probably frantic, so you picked it up.

"Yeah."

"Joey?" It was JC -- somehow you weren't surprised -- and the sound of his voice made you flush. "Joe, where you been, man? I called, like, all day yesterday, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you said. "I, um, we got drunk the other night, and we were kind of -- recovering." You didn't feel too bad about lying; what did bother you was reaching over to his side of the bed and feeling the sheets cool and empty there. "Hey, C, can I call you back?"

"Uh," he said doubtfully, but you were already hanging up on him.

You thought he'd be in the shower, but no; it was dry, no water running. Worried, you went downstairs naked, but the TV was off, the kitchen empty, no one anywhere as far as you could see. The cars were in the garage, and then it was you realized that he must have gone back.

You crawled back into bed, wanting to cry, and didn't move until JC called you again an hour later.

"He's gone," you said.

"Oh. You -- are you okay?" JC asked.

"Yeah." You didn't want him to get a hint about what happened. He was talking again, but you mostly tuned him out, not really feeling like talking but not wanting him to think anything was wrong, so nothing registered until you heard "--coming over, if that's okay."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to," and then he hung up. You sighed and put your head back under the pillow.

JC showed up forty-five minutes later with two big bags of Chinese, the scent of which wafted up the stairs into your cocoon. You didn't really want him there, but you didn't really stop him -- well, what could you do? -- when he came into your room and found you laying there. He dragged you out of bed, offering clothes with an unselfconscious air, and asked what happened: "You look like you just broke up with someone."

So then you were crying, and you ended up telling him about it. He didn't seem offended that you'd slept with the younger you; he didn't even flinch, he just hugged you, kissed your cheek, and then led you downstairs and made you eat. You felt a little better afterwards, but not by much, and JC chuckled and made some comment about narcissism and being in love with yourself, but then shook his head when you glared at him.

"I'm not teasing you, man. It's like, the ultimate in self-discovery. Hell, I'd love to have that happen."

"Really?" Eyebrows narrowed, you looked at him to see if he was joking. He grinned at you.

"Serious. It's, like, you couldn't have been with someone who cared more about you, and made it really special for you, and so of course you're gonna be, like, missing him, because he made you feel really good."

"True," you mumbled, and bent to your moo goo gai pan again, trying not to think about kissing him again. Because yesterday, in between bouts of mind-blowing sex, you and the other you had talked about his fantasies about JC, and what it would be like to kiss him, to fuck him, to have him fuck you. If he'd be sweet and pliant or nasty and dominant; if he'd be good, if he'd be shy and girlish about it; what his skin would taste like, how soft his hands would be. So of course when he called today, that was in your head, and it had been there ever since.

You started to wonder if you had been in love with JC back then, because the more you thought about it, the more you couldn't get the idea of being with him out of your head. You went to functions, you went to Toronto and Chicago and spent a month with Lance, and still you couldn't stop thinking about JC. Even when Brianna was born, and you held this precious bundle of life in your arms for the first time, you wanted JC to see her, and then you realized how far gone you were.

Especially as he grew his hair out, his whole self relaxing into this truer person, it became more and more difficult to spend time in the same room with him, which made recording far from enjoyable. At some point you wished the younger version of yourself would show up again and give you a push, or do something, because he'd done such a good job of it before, and now you were unmoving, your feet stuck in pitch. It bothered you: you'd always gone after things you wanted before. But watching JC close his eyes and wail a line of "Selfish", you could only stare, transfixed, frozen.

So it was a relief, finally, to have him show up one evening at your house; you'd spent the day in rehearsals, and when everyone had talked about getting together at Justin's to hang, you'd bowed out, saying you were going to help Kelly with Brianna. JC came in unannounced, found you sitting on the couch staring at the television, and said, in a suspicious tone, "Helping with Bree, huh?"

"Yeah," you grunted. He sat down next to you, an arm slung over the back of the couch, and looked at you. You just kept looking at the screen. Then your skin prickled, and his breath gusted hot in your ear.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Wasn't," you said.

"Thought you could bluff it out?"

"Yeah." Your skin tingled all the way down your side, his body so close but not touching, and you didn't know whether you were afraid to have him touch you or not. You thought: 'It's all right if it happens. I want it to happen.'

"Tell me it's what you want, Joe."

You sucked in a breath, gone speechless at the rich sound of his voice.

"Joey," he murmured, and you could almost feel his tongue on your ear, in the rich echoing vibration of his voice. You couldn't stand it any longer then; tossing the remote at the coffee table, you turned, put your hands on his waist, and kissed him.

It was, you thought later, as good as you'd thought it'd be. Better, even, with his full lips and slippery tongue and his hair so soft when your fingers threaded through it. And when you had him beneath you in bed, beneath you with his hot body and sleek tongue and cock hot between you as you moved slowly into him, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks for the insight you'd been given, even in the strange way it had been delivered.

"I think I've loved you forever," you said later.

He smiled and locked his arms around your waist.

"I know."


End file.
